WhatsApp chats are to the writer (who is also a housewife), what coffee breaks are to the working woman. The idle musing, the gossip and conjecture, the discussion and dissection of what your boss said, the niggles and the worries. When I first stopped working, the silence of the house was deafening, and I spent a good couple of years wondering how on earth I would ever get used to it. How would I find peace in the silence? The thing I missed was human contact, going to the office, seeing colleagues, being in meetings. The constant sharing of information and opinion that makes working both interesting and bearable. In the good old days, when my employer was still bouyant and super-fun, there was a morning ritual where my friend Natalie (ordained early on as my best-work-friend) and I would take the order for coffee and tea in the mornings, and queue in the canteen to get coffee tokens, to then queue for the machines, to then transfer this caffeine-infused bounty back to our peers. This was about a half mile walk in the IBM UK headquarters, wearing our suits and clip-clopping in our high heels, living the office-based dream. Oh happy days. Of course the more we progressed the career ladder, the less time there was for coffee queuing and the more time there was for fractious conference calls with irate executives, who’d missed their quarterly number.

Now, such pastimes are a distant memory and instead I plot chapters, and immerse myself in social commentary, and fret about the state of the book industry and whether I shall ever get published. I also chat to my friends on WhatsApp. My long-suffering friend Dawn, who is Godmother to our children and lives in the Netherlands, is one of the cleverest women I know. We have wide-ranging discussions on all matters and prior to speaking on the phone, I send her my agenda. This was an extract of yesterday’s:

Tonsillitis has entered the building. My boy is so ill.

Boo is lovely. She’s joined the choir.

I’m growing out my grey. Discuss.

Two jumpsuits; neither any good. I might have to get over this.

It’s so damn cold, my skin is cracking up. Oil oil oil at every application. Is this an age thing? I used to have oily skin. Now I’m like an old leather purse.

Incidentally, did anyone watch ‘Wanderlust’? The TV drama with Toni Colette (whose face is mesmerising) and tells of a middle aged couple whose marriage flatlines with familiarity, and decide to pursue other, outside sexual relationships, for kicks? My reaction to it was on a level with my reaction to ‘One Husband, Three Wives’ which is on Netflix and is the kind of dross I watch when I am housebound, as I have been this week. It tells of the Fundamentalist Mormon community in Utah who favour polygamy. It blew my mind. Marriage, and all of its glorious and ugly complexities seems to me to be increasingly incompatible with modern life. I write this even though I am married and have been for nearly nineteen years. It’s a whole book chapter in its own right. Marriage, one of the single biggest constants in my life, is fraught with such frailty, but at the same time such resilience. In all cases, as with all things, it’s just about how you look at it. Which lens you look through. I observe younger women, who are in their twenties, and wonder how on earth they will navigate this realm of marriage? I look at my children who, despite the profound societal change taking place as they grow and mature, still refer to getting married and having children as the thing they will do. Of course it’s where nurture pips nature to the post. Children mimic what they see in their parents, and whilst the fundamentalist mormons may appear to have a disregard for how modern women could live, (why have one wife when you can have three?) they are simply putting into practice the family values they witnessed as children. This family rite of passage is what procreation and marriage is underpinned by, isn’t it? In a keenness to be tolerant, I watch and learn, rather than watch and judge.

Of all daily preoccupations, wearing clothes is an obvious and persistent one. I have whittled down my dissatisfaction with the British winter to include the following issues: mud, rain, darkness and the inability to wear most of one’s wardrobe due to the limitations of all of the above. I have a theory that city-dwellers escape these limitations as they have asphalt and heated buildings. The dash from road to pavement (possibly slick with rain, but not mud-strewn), to office (heated and suitably cosmopolitan) to hip restaurant or bar, and home again. Sex and the City but with coats on. Admittedly, I’m imagining a girl-about-town agenda but the fact remains that rural life in Sussex does not lend itself to interesting clothes. Summer provides a brief respite, as it did this year, and we were relieved from the confines of jeans and jumpers to wear prints, floaty fabrics, sandals (exposed toes!), our shoulders out, our skin tanned, oh the heady recollection of maxi dresses and the whoosh of linen or cotton. Now, it’s the relegation to wool. This smacks to me, every year, of a sad state of affairs.

My equivalent commute from house to car to various errands to house again does not call for sartorial variety and this is what saddens me the most. I revert to my previous career, which necessitated meetings dressed in suits and heels, and whilst I don’t miss it, I lament it. I am not even sure that the ‘office dress’ of the 2000’s exists anymore? Is dress down Friday still a thing? I recall its advent in my workplace; it provoked a subtle shift from heels to flats and that was about it. So indoctrinated were we in the need to look businesslike. What is businesslike now?

Meanwhile, I went to Marrakesh last week, with friends, and experienced the sensory onslaught of a new culture. So incongruous after the buttoned-up reality of my home country. I was fascinated to see how others interpreted the requirement to be respectful of the culture there and so cover shoulders, knees, ankles and hair. We found a middle ground, but in the same breath witnessed Brits (because they could only have been) in buttock-skimming miniskirts and cropped tops. Wtf? It was in the same vein as my trip to the races, documented here, I felt a flush of shame for what some chose to wear. Then I admonished myself as after all, tolerance is key. Wear what you want, right?

I get preoccupied with jumpsuits – as they somehow have come to represent something to me – and waste hours looking at pictures from the 1970’s. There’s a nostalgic calling buried deep, a recollection of my Mum I think, in tan Jordache velvet cords which have now taken on legendary status in my imagination, and are lost to the mists of time. No photo exists; where are they now? But back to jumpsuits; I mean the ones that are like fitted overalls, possibly worn by Farrah Fawcett in Charlie’s Angels, or by grid girls at a Grand Prix, where someone like James Hunt raced. I scour the web. I run across Bianca Jagger, marrying Mick. I secretly wish I had been married in the seventies or eighties and had one of those milk-maid dresses with puffed sleeves and broderie-anglaise detailing. I was married in 1999, and my dress, which I thought was classic, was not. Despite every intention and even stating in the bridal shop ‘it will never date!’, it was a ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’ meringue. Fashion is a fickle friend.

Maybe it’s because we become used to looking at a regurgitated past in current fashions, maybe that is why I now covet pieces that are from another era. This retrospection is going hand in hand with the fact that I am halfway through my forties come Spring. That’s one to think about; see previous post on greying hair.

There’s a particular challenge to wearing clothes in your forties, which I attribute to the yawning hinterland between young and old. Middle-aged by both name and nature. Prior to forty there was an ironic insouciance to clothes. Young enough not to care. I imagine, by sixty, there will be – for me at least – a ‘don’t care’ mentality which will probably herald me wearing lurid pattens (palm tree kaftan anyone?) and oversized glasses. Iris Apfel is my idol. But right now, it’s neither here nor there. An unspoken manifesto has been embroidered into the consciousness of middle-aged women that they should look appropriate. Isn’t appropriate dressing just the worse thing?

No wonder I am despondent!

So I order the jumpsuit. I’m fairly sure it will not be fitting my rural sensibilities; it’s being sent to me from America and features David Bowie styling. Heaven help my kids.

One thing I notice about being a writer is that ideas which cross my mind no longer just drift through, they stay, mulch in like compost, and in time become a blog post or an essay or a concept in my book. This is good, in essence, because I’ve always been a thinker, I consider it an extrapolation. The concepts vary from lofty and high brow, to everyday and banal, and this one falls somewhere between the two.

Recently, my friend Amanda said she was going to stop colouring her hair in favour of natural grey. She ‘said’ this; what I really mean is she posted it on Instagram stories and as I scrolled through one day, in amongst a million other things, I initially didn’t think too much of it. Then my mum – who also follows Amanda – mentioned it to me. I went back over the story again, and thought: yes, going grey, there’s actually a thing called ‘Gronde’ (grey-blonde), and who knew? I googled ‘going grey’ and found out this is a huge preoccupation with women my age, and older.

I have been dying my hair since my twenties, owing to it being a mid-brown, mousy colour. I longed for those Rachel-esque streaks in the nineties. I once went a vivid, plum red, a colour that would never occur naturally. My hair was bleached platinum blonde right after university, at a hairdresser appointment where I didn’t pay attention to what the stylist was proposing. In more recent times, I’ve inadvertently succumbed to the mucky, khaki hair that happens when you over do it, and try to edge your way back to something more befitting your skin tone.

Not long after I was thirty, I started noticing grey hairs. One or two; four or five, no more than fifteen, thirty maybe? One hundred. A whole crop. Hair colouring turned from an idle dalliance to something I did to simply preserve the status quo. This continued until now, where I adhere to a regular five-weekly trip to the salon for a root cover up, and then endure a couple of days of itching scalp, two to three delightful weeks of no roots, before needing the process to start again. There is an inconsistency in the results, after all, I am pursuing what is a chemical treatment. Maybe the colour is too light or too dark, or afterwards has lightened in the sun, until I become an unenviable brassy blonde. It’s never a static, reliable outcome. I look around; everyone looks the same. All of my contemporaries have coloured hair, bar a rare few who are true brunettes, and who seemed not be greying at the rate I am. In conversation with a friend, we tried to think of one peer amongst the school mothers who had never dyed her grey hair, who was ‘naturally’ grey. We could find none. I accept these may be the circles I mix in. Women of a certain type (my type?) do not take to the signifiers of ageing readily. They cavort with artificial enhancers, hair dye being the least of it.

But the fact remains, could I be so bold as to state that no one seems to want to be grey haired? Grey hair meant old, and old meant a whole raft of other stereotypes that I couldn’t begin to unpick, they are so ingrained in our collective consciousness. It was as if to me, naturally grey hair was the flag denoting having reached a point of no return. The point after which everything important, current and vital about me would leach away. Of course I can see that this is irrational. But nevertheless…the feeling persisted.

Men go grey – my husband is going grey – and I don’t think he and I have ever even acknowledged it. The distinguished salt and pepper at the temples is accepted with an entirely different judgement to when a woman has not coloured her roots. Grey roots on a woman – especially against dark, contrasting hair – can be considered shocking, and not in an outlandish, cool way, but in a deep-seated ‘she’s let herself go’ way. It is a crowning manifestation of age (literally) that can’t be downplayed or ignored.

Is this another unspoken principle which women are required to observe, but never agreed to? An example of inequality to endure?

I start to look for positive grey hair stories, and find they abound. There are whole rafts of women who have abandoned the grey #greyhairdontcare, and the liberation they gain from a dyeing regime that is punishing, expensive and if I am honest, fairly soul-destroying heartens me. What used to be your natural state, your take-it-for-granted-hair, is something that can only be obtained with diligence, time, effort and money. That is how Cindy Crawford, aged 52 still has her infamous, lustrous chestnut mane. I no longer have a chestnut mane. Who are we kidding? The women who live in the squares of my Instagram feed are well in to their fifties, they are women I grew up with. I think we can safely assume they see a colourist most weeks.

With all of this churning away in my mind, I went to the hairdresser and in an act that I can only describe as insurgency, I told her not to colour my roots. We chose a different approach, one which might – let’s see – mean I can have less dye and more me. I endured all over ash blonde highlights, and in the moment of reveal in front of the mirror I was virtually palpitating. Seeing my grey blonde hair with exposed roots (!) caused a physical panic, a moment of fear and exposure I hadn’t anticipated. Closely followed by relief. I messaged Amanda. Solidarity sister!

It’s hardly a true revolutionary act, and I might find in a few months I revert to my old ways. But in the meantime, it’s a subtle grey-toned experiment in rebellion.

During a discussion (although he called it a debate) about Brexit, my Dad and I skirted around the edges of rage. I felt it well up in me and tried to swallow it down, as if it were gristle, unable to spit it out and leave it on the side of my plate. The gap of generational divide exposed. My family have never been particularly argumentative but instead specialise in a kind of quiet respect that could, at a push, be described as passive.

I wondered afterwards if I am too outspoken. I wonder how it comes across when I write here, how I feature here in these posts, and whether it is a supplicated version, mindful of the tremors that can be caused by placing one’s opinions on the internet. The compulsion to write is balanced with a fear of sharing too much, or of misjudging what is appropriate. I am ‘woke’, in the urban dictionary definition of the word, a new concept which I explained to a mother friend recently. But meanwhile, I don’t like to disagree with people, I don’t want to be a person who forces their views on others. I’d rather state my views and see if anyone agrees. Live and let live.

I finished Deborah Levy’s book ‘Things I Did Not Want to Know‘. It’s a book which captures the inner monologue of your forties. A backward glance to childhood and teenage hood, to growing up in the 1970’s, at a time when mothers and fathers aren’t like they are now. She describes the strange hinterland of midlife; of crying (or wanting to) on escalators, not knowing why. From that post-book void, I ploughed in with another, and listened to Lily Allen’s ‘My Thoughts Exactly‘ which lays her childhood bare and tells of the heartbreaking lack of attention she experienced. It seemed sacrilegious for her to expose her parents in this way, when assessing them by today’s standards, but as she alludes to in the narrative, she presents the facts. Whatever my feelings, the book is exceptional. The judgement is ours, as readers. Her honesty blew my mind. I think to myself; her parents did not see it as their role to form and nurture the humans they made.

Levy notes in her book that women mustn’t write in rage, because rage will discolour meaning. We must write in calm, or else we won’t be taken seriously. But what do we do with the rage in the meantime? I get a flashback to passing a country house retreat in Devon where ‘Women’s Screaming Therapy’ was advertised on an innocuous roadside sign. Screaming seems futile and more often than not, any rage I feel dampens down eventually and I continue on without it. Women are intrepid. Acceptance is key; rage is not. Rage comes from a place that does not move forward, but is stuck in an unending cycle of red.

The generational divide remains a fascination to me, though, and I excuse all manner of behaviours from the past because that’s just how society was then. I find myself referring to this in conversations with my husband, my Mum, my friends, to those who can see that society has lumbered along since, lets say, Y2K, and there has been a seismic shift. Do you reminder Y2K?! The end of the world. Binary code and computers without instructions. It didn’t amount to much. Instead, there have been a series of lesser known quakes taking place under my feet. The tectonic plates of family, work, marriage and parenthood have all formed new continents.

My husband calls. The dog sits at my feet. Waiting.

I think of the rage of other women. Ones I know and ones I am only acquaintances with. Rage about failed marriages, divorce and having children who rebel. Rage at promises broken. Rage at not having enough money or not having the lifestyle she might have envisaged for herself. Rage at the deal she might have made with herself to accept that which is unacceptable. Is this rage about loss? I think of those times when I’ve seen women lose their shit on Facebook, late at night, after they’ve had their wine. It’s that witching hour, when women email unsuspecting recipients and spill their vitriol; at the teacher, the volunteer sport coach, the retail outlet where she bought something that wasn’t to her expectations, and lambast the page, as unfair and unnecessary as a hurricane. I do it myself when everything gets too much, like this week, in the supermarket, where the plastic that everything was wrapped in tipped my balance and I became one of those awful huffy, shouty women whose children look at the ground and are embarrassed by. This particular kind of rage – the middle aged kind- seems to come from a deep source which is more often than not covered up. No one likes an angry middle aged woman. Younger women might have more leniency in this regard, but beyond the age of forty, forget it!

This is what Levy alludes to in her book. The secret inside which stokes the flames. So the irony is that we read about mindfulness, meditation, self care, taking a nightly bath and eating vegetables and trying so damn hard to quell the feelings. As if calm is the panacea to everything that life throws, from plastic, to politics, to wrinkles, to parenthood and onwards. Take a deep breath. But is it?

I have a cold. This means a self-imposed quarantine of long, quiet days, spent waiting for recovery. The kind of sick day that used to be alluring, when I was working, or before I had children. Now, it means solitude, until the collection of my children after school, then the normalcy of weekday life reverts in the evening hours, but with congestion, a headache, aches and sniffles.

I am left with my thoughts. When unwell, it’s hard to imagine being well again, which sounds ridiculous but is true. My body under viral attack, I trace back to when I last felt this way as if I can identify the rogue bug and eradicate the possibility of repeat. It was last winter; skiing, a dormant French hotel room. My efforts to stay healthy border on obsessive, I have little patience for this. My life is predicated on my being well; the cogs don’t turn unless the engine is running. My children look at me reproachfully when there’s no bread in the house.

I watch too much Netflix – end to end ‘Killing Eve’, that pink dress! – and documentaries about the environment. I feel so fretful about the environment I have to check myself. I am being brainwashed by the scaremongers. But the more knowledge I have, the worse it gets. It seems, in this instance, that the scare mongers might be right. I’ll tell you what. When global temperatures rise by 2 degrees, and the ice caps melt, and the planet is too hot to even go outside, I’ll see you on that last piece of remaining, un-flooded land, and we can watch the plastic containers float by, and wonder whether it was worth it. It’s a dog’s dinner, or, as my friend messaged me last week: ‘we are fucked’.

In a flurry of luck, in my sickened state, I got Glastonbury tickets on Sunday. I’m almost ashamed to admit this because they are so desirable, and so hard to come by, especially this year, that I remain incredulous. Early morning; multiple devices, an incentivised teenage son sitting next to me, rapid refresh, mouse clicking, abject frustration as the connection drops, we get booted out. The registration page, the payment page, the confirmation page, all flash up in a striptease, pressing forward, click, click, click. A bizarre technological dance which abruptly ends with ‘BOOKING COMPLETE’ and I feel adrenalin like I’ve scaled a mountain. Surfed a wave. Done something other than sat in my pyjamas. I wonder if I want them so much simply because they’re hard to get? Then I remember how much I love Glastonbury and how utterly freeing it is to stand in a field and experience music so loud it makes your organs vibrate, and to do it with hundreds of thousands of other humans.

I start listening to the audiobook of Deborah Levy’s ‘Things I Don’t Want to Know’ and find it cripplingly, awe-inspiringly good. It’s the kind of book I want to write. This has a dual effect. Half inspiring, half terrifying. Deborah’s written it already. Deborah can write the innards of my mind, as if un-spinning a knot of wool. I’m only a smidgen in, and I know I will love it already. And hate that its been done. This is how it goes with writing. No longer do I have thoughts and allow them to pass through. Now my thoughts have become a thing I must capture, I must write down, I must turn into something that is work. Quit your job. You’ll be fine.

I observe the shit show of American politics playing out on the news and feel the bile of conflict. Everything feels off. Theres’s conflict with the process, conflict with society, conflict with the commentary. I read a lot, and liberalism seems to pervade my newsfeed as I realise I have concocted a partisan following in support of feminism and an egalitarian sensibility. I read a lot of women writers who suggest in their language that all men who are accused of sexual misbehaviour are guilty, because, well, because…men. This troubles me, and I wonder whether any of those women have teenage sons who are about to navigate the treacherous water of gender politics in coming years.

I watch old family videos, trying to locate one of my daughter, aged one, laughing, giggling uncontrollably, the baby girl she was. The DVD is no longer compatible with our machine, and I wonder how I can regather those images. Later DVDs obligingly play, leaving me questioning why the one from 2002 is considered defunct? What happened in 2002? In 2003 I look young, and brown-haired, and really, really slim, despite doing zero exercise at that time.

I feel viral, weighed down, and shuffle around my house wearing a weird, old, dowdy Alpaca cardigan that reaches my knees. The postman comes. I discard the junk mail envisaging land fill; rotting catalogues for things I never wanted. I make mushrooms on toast (I went shopping) as a comfort food, like my mum used to make me, sautéed in butter, with garlic, and scattered with chopped parsley.

I message my writing group and they put me straight; ‘just write’ they say. We console each other. The virus is making me jaded. I turn to the blog because it’s the least demanding way to write. Type. Preview. Publish! Oh so easy! So here it is.

I was infamous amongst my university housemates because I resolutely did not cook. I arrived with a bag of tangerines and some cheese, and proceeded to live off that until my friend Emma took pity on me and shared her sweet and sour stir fry. This continued throughout my student years, until I lived with my future husband, who then took over the mantle of cooking. He was – and is – a gifted cook, and won his way to my heart with, amongst other things, food. We married and he cooked, whilst my own repertoire was limited to pasta. This worked fine for the years we cohabited in early marriage, and until we had children, at which point (coincidentally?!) his job meant he had to work away some of the time, and my job (mother) meant I had to prepare food for my babies. Even then, I didn’t really cook, and was reluctant to do so. This seemed entirely reasonable to me and was a product of my generation, right? Just because I was the woman, why should I be the one to prepare our food? I was proud of my inability, because deep down I thought cooking represented some vestige of the past. I didn’t cook because dammit, I didn’t have to. I’d married a man who did it for me. It seemed the ultimate in gender progression. Cooking was the same category as tidy cupboards or keeping orderly admin. Dull. Dated.

What I failed to appreciate was that my own lack of skill rendered me disadvantaged as our family grew. I could not feed my children home cooked food. I could not cater a dinner party. When I maintained my career, I made cooking out to be one of life’s pastimes that I was way too busy to participate in. But in time, as my career dwindled, and my children grew up, them having a mother who couldn’t cook became somewhat unhelpful. Plus…I love food.

So I learned to cook, as chronicled here and I now do so religiously, stopping in the past few weeks to photograph the daily offering (I’ll share the results on instagram). This is, in part, as a testimony of my own cooking capability (I am proud of how far I’ve come; I make no bones), but also in readiness to teach my daughter to cook, for a time in future when she will not have me doing it for her. The empty nest over the horizon makes mothers do all sorts of odd things; photographing food for recipes, walking through her empty bedroom when she is at school, and feeling heavy-hearted about it, being incredulous on the prospect that soon she will be driving.

I realised, like so many realisations since I turned forty, that cooking is one of life’s pleasures, and being able to cook is a gift. Cooking for friends or family is like giving yourself, your time, your goodness, to a process that nurtures. The same applies to baking, which I have entirely not mastered, but which I see has the same profound effect. I read the book ‘Heartburn’ by Nora Ephron recently, a story peppered with recipes, as it tells a tale of a cook whose marriage falls apart. The meaning she instils in food, and its significance to events in our lives, is not lost on me. My best memories are from around tables. My mother’s food is the route to all solace and contentment. My recollection of my Danish Mormor’s gooseberry tart, or her ‘frikadelle’ and gravy remains the sweetest reverie. Her gravy, its unlikely components passed down like folklore in our family (milk, and tomato ketchup) sums up how the women in my family behave. There’s a degree of nonchalance, hopefully some style, and old-fashioned, understated know-how. I see now that for years I didn’t understand the relevance of these distinctions.

In short, knowing how to cook has made me wise, not just about how food behaves when its prepared and heated, but also about feeding my own moods. Of knowing my own mind. And, I suppose, crucially, of escaping my thoughts at the end of a day. Cooking enables an emptying out of the mind. I’m an advocate of vegetables because they don’t misbehave, they rarely poison people – when they’ve gone off, you can tell, – they’re healthier and cause less waste. This is why most meals in our house are based on vegetables with meat (sometimes) and not the other way around. Again, an example of the ideological u-turn provoked by age. As with most things that I now think, but didn’t used to, I wonder if its simply because I have time? I can almost feel the trolls saying ‘yes, but, we’d all cook if we had your privilege of time,’ and maybe that’s true.

Meanwhile – and I’ll be quiet, and finish with my evangelical tone just as soon as I point this out – I discover companies like this, who are proponents of real produce, homegrown, to be cooked from scratch and without being wrapped in plastic. Bananas in plastic? Courgettes in plastic? Avocados in plastic? Everything swathed in it. Frankly, it’s freaking me out. I suppose this is what they mean by wisdom; just because we’ve always done something a certain way just because we can, doesn’t mean we should. I receive a text from my daughter; ‘what’s for dinner?’

I had such high hopes for September. The summer holidays over, and a stretch of uninterrupted time weaving ahead of me, a lovely long road, with all the possibility of the words I would write, and the things I’d get sorted. Getting sorted is a key preoccupation, getting ahead of every little thing. If I am ahead, then there will be time to write. If there is time to write, maybe I will make some headway with the book. During my Masters degree, when I had submission deadlines, I would take myself off to work and of course it all got done, because it had to. One of the hardest parts of post-academic life is that the deadline is one I have set myself, and it is my self-discipline which dictates the word count. All the best intentions…

My daughter and I are doing university tours. We visit on open days, speak to undergrads and talk about course structures and her suite of worries are entirely different to my suite of worries. The prospect of packing her off to university seems far-off and implausible, but of course, I know it will come. The excitement is counter-balanced with a sense of…not regret…but a bittersweet awareness that her childhood is drawing to a close. Conversely, as my son enters his teens (like a marauding rhino), I recognise the same feelings I used to have about her. The parental readjustment required to at once allow growth, but to also provide boundaries. The conversation on boundaries revisits with alarming regularity, and I find myself thinking: didn’t I explain this last week?

Last week my son was injured playing rugby. All my years of being poker-faced on the sideline came to an unceremonious end as I stood, striken and peering through the rain, waiting to see if he was going to get up from the mangled pile he had been at the bottom of. It’s a curious thing to see your child injured and to see others administer to him, and after some time, when he did get up and was clapped off by the opposition – keen to get on with the game – I felt grateful he was OK. Later, sitting in ‘Accident and Emergency’ in hospital waiting for X-ray results, the feeling persisted. Acute worry, and the love, and the incredulity of how danger and threat can come for you, unannounced. And always in the knowledge that there are other families, other mothers, whose children are more injured or more sick, and a swathe of gratefulness floods over me again, rendering me quiet and vacant. A few days later and we see a surgeon, after the swelling subsided. He’s fractured his cheek bone in three places, and I find myself wondering whether it was my fault that he was raised to love a game that is so fraught with injury. We are a rugby family and I married a rugby player, and I’ve never known any different. To us; the merits of the game far outweigh the risk.

There’s a reluctant medicalisation. Ironically, I had been reading ‘This is Going to Hurt‘ by Adam Kay, the memoir of a junior doctor, which describes the ailing NHS and what it’s like to work within it. I sit opposite medics, on the receiving end, and wonder how long they’ve been on their shift. I have an urge to be kind and polite to them, as we sit and read posters on the wall that say: ‘physical abuse against our staff will not be tolerated’ and I wonder who on earth resorts to physically abusing staff, those whose job it is to help? We observe the other punters and how everyone tries, surreptitiously, to deduce everyone else’s symptoms. It’s not always obvious.

It struck me as we waited (another waiting room, another part of the hospital) that it’s these sorts of events that inform my writing. Writing itself doesn’t happen in a vacuum, but instead is – for me at least – an after-affect of life. It was Anaïs Nin who noted: ‘we write to taste life twice.’ My children, and my observation of them has always been a source; there’s an event, a feeling, the witnessing of a moment. Then there’s my musing afterwards.

Meanwhile, there are breezy, brisk Autumn days. Crane flies cling to the outside of the windows, their spooky legs stretched wide, in contorted squats. Everything seems to be drawing inwards, homewards, ready for the winter months. Maybe I am a winter writer? Maybe the introspection of cold and darkness is what is needed? Or maybe, life just gets in the way of my words? Maybe I make too many excuses? Whichever way, I am good only for dog walks and quietness this week.

I have returned from two weeks holiday; we went to my beloved Florida, and then my newly beloved St Lucia, in a veritable tour of palm trees and of wearing tropical kaftans. Like swigging a restorative tonic down in one, summer holidays are a salve, a balm, a tincture, and all other lightly medicinal things which make your soul feel better. So many thoughts occurred to me there that I want to share here, but I kept them stored up, not wanting to be inside, at a laptop typing (wishing there was an app that could literally record your thoughts, as you have them? Terrifying, but also oh so useful). So I am left with many impressions I want to record, observations, assertions and such like. Taking time away from home is, for me, as the ‘homemaker’, doubly thought-provoking, as the release from the daily work of caring for others creates space in my mind, and it’s liberating.

I learned that I still love palm trees and spent a good portion of time pondering why they represent such happiness to me. I think, like all things, it’s rooted in childhood, when we used to decamp to Florida for extended periods, as my parents ran a holiday home rental business there. We would touch down and my brother and I would race through the airport, through the air-conditioned casing of the place, vying to reach an external door which would allow us a deep breath of humid, hot air (no matter what time of day or night), with the sound of cicadas, and tiny brown lizards scuttling across concrete, and borders of palm trees. It represented safety to me. And amongst the tumult of divorce, there was contrast to home. A whole other empire.

Now, I see my children do the same thing, but for them, it is a satisfying inhalation of family time, where the rigours of home, work and school are suspended. There’s nothing like it. Even more bittersweet with teenagers as there’s the knowledge that the days of this kind of purist family time, all together, may be numbered. Soon they won’t want to come with us, will they?!

In St Lucia, we made lovely friends and spent the week chatting and drinking, and sunning ourselves. We went to Caribbean restaurants perched in rainforest canopies and ate lobster burgers. We fell asleep to the sound of tree frogs. We spent hours in the sea, sometimes flat like a pond, turquoise crystalline-clear, and saw striped neon fish dart around our legs. We spent an idyllic day on a boat, skimming the coastline of sheer black rock, edged with impossible green-blue. Every scene an instagram-worthy feast. Decisions involved which bikini to wear or which drink to have; Mango (rum) Crush or Piton Beer? But there were also airport delays. Travel sickness and a dodgy cod fillet. We got sunburnt and were profoundly jet lagged for the first few days. We argued over where to eat dinner and during playing cards. I forgot to bring enough books. I lamented the blatant and obscene over-use of plastic packaging in both American and the Caribbean (even more sacrilegious for being a small island, somehow). There was that curious phase after the mid-point where you kinda want to stay, but you also know you have to go home. There was the packing and unpacking and all over again.

The good with the bad. The rough with the smooth. But most of all, family, tradition, indulgence and time were ours. We dissected the pros and the cons and wondered how, as a standard we have become people who work all year to escape the lives we should be loving. What’s the saying: cultivate a life that you don’t need to take a holiday from? I needed a holiday. But, I have to say, I have returned fresh and excited and poised for what’s next. So whilst post-holiday blues pinch and pull, and every time I look at social media someone, somewhere is still away, doing what we did, and that grates, I see that it performed its function. And that is to give perspective. To free up the mind. To release. To allow me to take stock. To a writer, what more could I want as I approach September, and the bouquet of sharpened pencils* that it represents?

When writing, I don’t pen a word for days, weeks even, and then I get stuck in, shoulders aching in protest as I sit at the keyboard, in awkward, hunched positions, trying to keep my back straight, limiting my punctuation because I just want to get it down. If the mood to write comes, I musn’t ignore it. In the summer time though, this is near on impossible. Instead, I make endless notes and carry stuff around in my head with the plan to write it when the sun goes down. The grass outside is burnt, tinder-dry, ochre and it looks so odd compared to the usual green lushness of the British summer. This spell of weather brings with it a new way of living; one which feels surreal, and as if we are on borrowed time. It takes three weeks of doing something regularly before it becomes a habit, right? So with this summer comes the habit of throwing open the doors each morning, opening up the back of the house, as the wall is all glass, and allowing a four metres scheme of fresh air in, after a night of being closed up. Checking the garden. Feeling the warmth, choosing clothes that are cool, protective from sun. Incongruously, winter coats hang on pegs and in cupboards and it’s hard to imagine we’ll ever need them again. Oh, but we will, come October! It feels endless, this summer, like an intermission during a long show. Time to get an ice cream and watch the world go by. The summer brings with it an extension of time, of days, one that differs to the dark drawer of winter.

It’s so unusual to have such a spell of sun, it defies all normal convention in this country. We, as a nation, are so starved of this weather, we have instead a ubiquitous blanket of cloud that hangs low in our skies through most of the year. We went to Portugal and on the flight back (above the clouds) I made lists of things I need to do. My reminders list stands presently at 59. What will be lucky 60? School holidays are a hiatus that I both love and deplore. A time of flux for us before September returns, and sharpens us all up again. My list spans from essay ideas (social media and teenagers/procrastination methods when it comes to writing/why I want to befriend people who make podcasts), to items I need to source (car wash sponges/’Bitter Orange‘ by Claire Fuller/beaded necklaces perfect for tanned skin). I think of the future and the traction I will need to get from where I am now, to where I really ought to be, and I shudder. Make a fresh list. Write the book.

Writing is not for summer. Summer is for salad.

We’ve had family staying and a houseful of kids. We’ve had a makeshift pool in the garden that’s needed daily coaxing to stay clear-watered. We’ve had builders planning the next phase of renovation. We’ve had the dog groomed and hedges cut. I’ve scoured the summer sales for impractical dresses in retro patterns. A steady stream of stop, start. We’ve watched a season of ‘Ozark‘ and felt the lingering sense of ‘what next?’ when it ended. Season two is out now, I believe. The floor is littered with flip-flops and tennis rackets and half-unpacked suitcases and as ever, there’s more laundry that there ought to be. All this to the soundtrack of comings and goings. I’m aware these summers will pass me by soon; this cornucopia of family life that I am the epicentre of. What’s for dinner? At some point, in the not too distant future, term time and school holidays will be something that affects others, a distant memory to me, like night feeding a newborn, or pushing a pram.

I cook every evening, it’s an eclectic mix, as I believe in the power of the side dish. I will prepare three of four kinds of vegetables, ostensibly to accompany something more substantial, but really the vegetables arethe meal. The substantial thing might be an egg. Or lentil dahl. This would horrify my husband who thinks a meal does not qualify unless it contains meat, carbs and the addition of a garnish for colour. My way of cooking is simpler; it’s more or less impossible to mess vegetables up; they don’t go off as quickly, there’s less waste, and there’s never the feeling of overdoing it. I planted a herb garden a week or so ago. I appreciate this is the kind of bollocks I used to read in blogs or articles when I was working, and I would think: yea, right (ffs). It’s all very ‘Good Life’, and it’s not lost on me that this whole extravaganza of home-making is down to the fact that I don’t do paid work that often, and I am at home a lot. There’s a bittersweetness to this fact. Housewifery run amok.

My children and their friends have come to expect this bizarre range of dishes; baked aubergine with yoghurt and pomegranate, roasted peppers with finely chopped red onion, fresh basil pesto, raw broccoli and apple salad, tomatoes, butternut squash with chilli, broad beans, feta. Wedges of crisp, iceberg lettuce with creamy drizzle of caesars, and sea salt. God bless the chick pea. Turmeric dressings with honey. I no longer apologise for it; if they don’t like it, there’s always something else on the table that they might like.

When we were newly together, my husband and I befriended a local couple who, every Sunday, offered us a place at their table. They lived modestly, but the food was exquisite, and prepared with love, as an event, really. It was an open house, an open table. This kind couple, who were probably in their early 40’s – the age I am now, and we were twenty years younger – shared food and wine. It enabled us to punctuate our week with a feeling of calm and of home, at a time when we gave little importance to the need for such things.

In reality now, this is hard to recreate. Friendships appear to no longer be predicated on impromptu dining. My friends and I schedule weeks, sometimes months in advance for a dinner, which invariably falls at a time when the host is stressed, or has something else they need to be doing. Availability and time has become the enemy of the friendly meal. It’s something I lament; why don’t people just pop round for dinner? And why does cooking food have to be so challenging? Why must complex ingredients be sourced? I like it when there’s enough for everyone and a meal can stretch because ultimately, there’s always another side dish that can bridge the gap. I used to not even like cooking, but I see that something that is a necessity (eating), can become a pleasure, and an expression.

I’ve written before about how eating evening meals with teenagers is the single best piece of advice I’d give any parent about to embark on that particular phase of parenting. There’s nothing like eyeballing them each night, and extending the process of eating, of having seconds, and thirds, waiting for the meal rather than rushing it, a conspiracy to help chill the mood and glean the issues of the day. In fact, I regret the years I cooked ‘kiddy tea’ for them, served quick and early, as I maintain now that children who eat with adults gain more than they lose. In a frenetic day, it slows the pace.

And as for the vegetables, for all that the ‘clean eating’ movement has been maligned – and it’s not hard to see that veganism and clean eating have, for some, become synonymous with an unhealthy preoccupation with food or a propensity to eat disorderly – it has provided a way to see vegetables as something other than an afterthought. A good friend of mine recently became vegan after a lifetime of vegetarianism, and said to me that it was deplorable that we, as humans, presume that the eating of meat every day is normal, expected, understandable. Even if we all ate less meat per week, carbon footprints would of course, notably reduce. I suppose the point is, like so many elements of our society, we do it because we can. Because meat is supplied in the most innocuous way, as slabs of something to add when cooking, even though we have participated a sum total of zero in its procurement (how many times do we consider the abattoir when cooking a steak, for example?) In a counter to the argument though, another friend said to me; ‘we are carnivores, we have canines, we can digest meat with enzymes in the gut; we are meant to eat meat!’

I wonder whether the way I languish in the preparation of food is because I don’t have a job. Cooking is a bit like writing, and I spend my days thinking about writing, and doing it, and then fretting about whether its any good. Cooking is the same but the results are better, more reliable. The preparation and the repetition is meditative, and the transition from uncooked to cooked satisfying, like a makeover montage in a film; there’s a before, and then you enjoy the after.

I use this blog for inspiration (Tania is vegan, and cooks the simplest meals which always just work, are not over engineered, and she is so passionate about the topic, it’s contagious!). There are the usual suspects; those celebrities who’ve infiltrated the culinary canon of this country; the monolithic works of Jamie Oliver but also Deliciously Ella, whose recipes are ridiculously easy. This book by Jane Clarke has featured on my kitchen shelf for years, and Tonia Buxton is also a good staple. I also cook a lot from The Scandinavian Cookbook which is broken down into seasons. It’s all good.